Aramis-Centric Prompt Fills
by Cognizance
Summary: Collection of Aramis-centric one shots of varying themes. (1) Aramis never flinches and d'Artagnan is learning. (2) The regiment's complicated hierarchy is not something d'Artangan has adequately contemplated. (3) Aramis being carried (4) AU Panic attack. (5) A minor sleep disturbance and the protection of brothers. (6) Aramis is sick - Athos is looking after him.
1. Unflinching

A/N: While I try to get myself better focused on finishing my measly wip, I'm gathering up some short one-shots that've been collecting dust. I also have a few roughly drawn Athos-centric short fics, and one Porthos one, but if those see the light of day, I'll do it in another post. So, for now, Aramis.

First prompt: As Aramis never flinches on the show, even when a musket is being fired at his feet, the prompter wanted a fic playing on this premise.

* * *

 **Unflinching**

* * *

-o-

As though calming his nerves to load a musket under duress, d'Artagnan took a steadying breath, centering his weight on the balls of his feet. With his back to the wall he peered around the corner and found the walkway empty all the way to Treville's office. Perfect.

Body appropriately galvanized, he tiptoed to the balcony with silent precision, hefting the weight in his hand with nimble fingers as he darted a quick glance over the railing to ensure his quarry hadn't moved.

And there he was down below. Aramis. Feet kicked onto the planked table as he lounged precariously. His weight balancing hazardously on two shaky legs of a tilted stool while his back took rest against a support beam. Head bent sedately over a book. Absorbed. Unprepared.

D'Artagnan smiled. Narrowing his eyes with determination, he aimed the farrier hammer in his grip at the stacked metal plates sitting at the end of the bench below and counted under his breath.

 _One._

 _Two._

On _'three'_ he set the hammer free, watching with anticipation as it arched quietly through the air.

Striking a mere sword-span away from his quarry's nonchalant lean, it crashed into the plates with a bang and clatter that echoed through the garrison like a musket shot.

Two soldiers near the gate startled upright and glanced over while Serge jerked out from behind the stairs in a twitchy, battle-braced stance. Near the lower level of the armory, Cartier brought to guard the sword he'd been examining and Auguste reached for his flint-lock. The horses outside the stable in the back huffed and snorted while the Musketeers cleaning their coats dropped their brushes and spun.

Aramis however...

Aramis' body did not so much as release a tremor.

No flinch. No cringe. No recoil.

The dangerously balanced stool below him remained as steady as sovereign's throne.

"Good morning, d'Artagnan," he greeted placidly, not even lifting his head as he turned the page in the tome he was reading, perfectly engrossed. His voice raised just enough to be heard. "Feeling restless today?"

Frowning through this new defeat, d'Artagnan didn't bother to answer him. Instead, he folded his elbows onto the railing in front of him and slumped, taking no heed as the other occupants in the yard shook their heads at him before going back to business as usual.

Sensing a presence a moment later, d'Artagnan glanced to the side to find Athos had joined him.

"That is not normal." D'Artagnan pointed, watching as Aramis laconically flipped another page. "I mean, I've seen him upset, frustrated—emotional even. But this? Not even a tic? I don't understand how he does it."

"Must it be understood?" Athos asked, cocking his head sideways.

D'Artagnan looked up, believing from the dry tone that he was being teased, then feeling a tiny itch at the base of his neck when he caught the hint of seriousness in Athos' eyes, fleeting though it may have been. Straightening, he examined Athos' face looking for a trace of what he might have missed, then glanced away and sighed glumly. "Perhaps not."

Shuffling closer, Athos patted a hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder. "For what it's worth, that time you hid in the armory and sprung up yelling, I believe you came very close to startling him."

"Not hardly," d'Artagnan returned sourly. Aramis had barely glanced at him, while Porthos had spent the rest of the afternoon mockingly deconstructing the pitch of d'Artagnan's scream.

Very nearly smiling, Athos clapped his shoulder again, glanced over the rail to glimpse Aramis down below, then moved on toward the captain's office.

Bending back over the banister, d'Artagnan braced his elbows and frowned anew.

Perhaps it didn't need to be understood. But like most of the mysterious quirks these three men had brought into his life, he wanted it to be.

-o-


	2. charge d'affaires

Second Prompt: d'Artagnan learns that via seniority, Aramis is the one in charge of the garrison when the captain is absent.

A/N: The full prompt for this one was, "Given that Athos is the unofficial leader of the quartet of Musketeers, d'Artagnan is completely surprised to learn that it's actually Aramis who is Treville's second, being the more experienced musketeer. And that while it's just the four of them Aramis is quite happy to sit back; when it's a larger group, and Treville is not around, he is more likely to take charge. And he is very good at it. Just looking for how d'Artagnan discovers these facts."

* * *

 **charge d'affaires**

* * *

-o-

Wearily, Athos trudged down the garrison steps and stopped. There at the base, he took off his hat and ran his thumb along the felt edge. Stiffly lingering near the banister with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

After a pause - wherein the three occupants of plank-wood table began to frown and fidget - he shot a silent look at the heavens then struck a decisive path toward Aramis, sitting pointedly down next to him and receiving a wary side-eye for his trouble.

Slowly, d'Artagnan frowned, cocking his head and narrowing a cautious look across the table.

"So." Porthos cleared his throat when nothing emerged from Athos's mouth. "I'd be correct in guessing we have new orders then?"

Athos glanced at him, tapped his fingers on the wood surface and grimaced. "Yes and no. We're to continue our pursuit of the footpads menacing the arena of the _hôtels particuliers_ , however..." His gaze shot skyward again.

"However..." prompted Porthos.

"However," Athos repeated. "By requirement, we'll be pressed down to three. Captain Treville has been ordered to visit the Duke of Orleans—"

"No, don't say it," groaned Aramis.

"—with a small retinue of soldiers," Athos persisted, glowering as he straightened and let the weight of command enter his voice. "Therefore he requires someone to fill in for him here."

Un-cocking his head, d'Artagnan blinked, glancing back and forth between Athos's stoic demeanor and Aramis's suddenly miserable expression. "I don't understand," he said carefully. "We've been down to three before." His ernest gaze settled upon Athos. "We'll miss you, of course, but surely we can handle such an investigation for a few days without you." He paused, glancing hesitantly at Aramis before speaking to Athos again. "Besides, you'll be right here, won't you? If we need to consult with you while we do the legwork and such - that would be possible, right?"

Athos stared at him for a moment, a small smile playing at his lips before he broke eye contact and cast his gaze at Aramis, eyeing him with an expression that was somehow both stern and sympathetic.

Aramis had gone still. His eyes sat darkly below his furrowed brow and in a matter of seconds he had ceased all attempts at eating. Dropping his crust tiredly into his soup bowl, he sighed heavily.

D'Artagnan's confused frown returned. Warily, he set his spoon into his bowl.

Chuckling, Porthos clapped a hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Don't mind him," he said, leaning in towards d'Artagnan's ear as though he were about to share a secret, though the volume of his voice reflected no such reality. "Our Aramis will be back to himself in no time—"

"He just hates being stuck with the damn paperwork," Athos finished archly.

D'Artagnan blinked. "Aramis?"

Saying nothing, Aramis dropped his elbow to the table, digging a thumb into his forehead.

Porthos laughed louder, lifting a cup of weak wine up in salute. "Better you than me, my friend, better you than me."

-o-


	3. Moveable

Third prompt: A Musketeer being carried after being incapacitated. For the purposes of this fic – being Aramis-Centric Prompt Fills as labeled – this is Aramis being carried after being incapacitated.

A/N: I've long since lost the exact location page this prompt was found on. I'd sketched it out loosely so long ago, I think it was a round one prompt. All I really know is that in this version, it becomes sort of a blanket covering for the tropiest tropes of all tropes.

* * *

 **Moveable**

* * *

-o-

"Have you got him?"

"I've got him."

Athos eyed the steps and rebalanced. Aramis was more muscle than one might predict at first turn – seeing him standing next to Porthos as he normally was. And it wasn't often that Athos had cause to carry him in this manner to remind himself.

"Athos," mumbled Aramis. As usual, coming awake at the worst of times, sounding disconcertingly like a lost child. His head rolled with a worried whimper – chin digging heavily into Athos's kidney.

"Don't move, Aramis," Athos ordered. "I've got you. All right? I've got you."

"Athos," Aramis mumbled again, losing distinction.

Athos listened, waiting to see if he would wake further or drop back into unconsciousness.

His head rolled again. "Athos, should I… should I be walking?" The words came out slurred together with a strange, softly sounding innocence. He remained limp and heavy.

"No," Athos answered gently, nearly finding a smile at the absurdity. "No, you shouldn't be walking."

He waited again, adjusting Aramis on his shoulder and looking at the steps.

"He's out again," informed Porthos.

Nodding, Athos started up, Porthos coming up behind with an unhappy grunt. "I could've carried him."

"Not with those stitches."

Turning at the corner of the balcony, Athos braced one hand to Aramis's hip to keep him from sliding off his shoulder and found himself with the contradictory thought that Aramis had grown rather boney.

"Watch his head."

"I've got it. Get the door."

Porthos did, shoving a chair out of the way that was blocking the pathway around the bed. "I hate it when he gets like this."

"I know."

Athos braced his knee at the bed's edge, separating his feet for leverage as he bent forward, slowly lowering Aramis down. At which point Porthos was there, supporting Aramis's back and head and keeping him upright as Athos ducked back from under his arm.

Slumped as he was, Aramis's wild hair looked wilder, falling over his eyes, making his pale face look paler – honest and accessible, even with his eyes closed. The raw vulnerability did things to Athos's ribs.

Brushing back Aramis's hair for a moment, Athos smoothed his thumb along the dip of his temple, then braced his head as they tipped him backward. He hated when Aramis got like this too, but he liked being able to physically do something for him. Particularly when he felt at a loss in other ways.

Porthos nudged him. Having poured a basin of water, he was holding out a cloth. Athos took it, folding the cool dampness over Aramis's forehead.

Together, they worked Aramis's boots free. The punctured leather in one revealing a cut that was about as bloody as Athos had expected it to be from the knife that'd gone through it. Sitting on the bed to take Aramis's legs across his own as Porthos gathered their supplies, he watched Aramis's face as he pressed gently against the bruised skin around the wound.

Aramis stumblingly exhaled, but didn't speak.

His eyes stayed closed.

"Think he's right enough?" asked Porthos. He'd moved the basin stand to accommodate Athos's reach, and then taken seat against the wall by Aramis's head. Pressing his thumb over the cloth dampening Aramis's eyebrows in a gentle pattern.

Athos worked, holding Aramis's ankle as he wrapped the injury from both directions, closing over the soft bandage in way he could ensure it didn't slip. "No doubt, he will regret it all by morning. More so when we tell him he cannot walk on this foot."

Porthos made a noncommittal sound.

Athos looked at him, then drifted his gaze to Aramis's wearied face. "He'd do better not to follow my example in this," he answered softly. "But there are worse things than drunken fights. He's as entitled to such nights of folly as any of us."

"It's our fourth fight in two days," Porthos reminded wryly. "The captain's going to want words with us before long."

The corner of Athos's lip turned up. "Undoubtedly. But only this one owes any part to Aramis's doing. And one could say he was arguably provoked."

"He was looking to be provoked."

"Nevertheless, Treville will concede our clashes yesterday were the unavoidable result of duty, and d'Artagnan is already on errand out of the city to keep him from continuing his tangle with the Red Guards. The captain will hardly ask more from us than that."

"D'Artagnan could've controlled himself."

"He is getting better at it, yes," Athos agreed, then reconsidered. "Sometimes."

"It isn't right," Porthos said, and Athos didn't pretend to imagine they were still talking about d'Artagnan, or Treville. "This isn't him. This isn't like him."

"Not often, no."

Athos contemplated for a moment without letting his thoughts go to far. He smoothed a finger along the ridge of the bandage he'd just placed, then held Aramis's legs up as he moved from beneath them and stretched out along his side, exhaling with an arm behind his head, then changing his mind. He rolled onto his side, folding an arm over Aramis's ribs, just to feel him breathe.

Aramis turned his head at the touch, sighing heavily and bumping his nose to Athos's chin.

On the other side of him, Porthos stretched his own legs out, tweaking the pillow he'd bunched against the wall behind his back. The candles were still burning on the stand near Porthos's head, but he made no move to blow them out.

In the stillness, Athos imagined he could see Porthos's thoughts circling upward toward the black stains on the ceiling. Evidence of the faint smoke from flickering candles, burning night after night next to where Aramis sat reading.

"As long as it doesn't become a pattern," Porthos mumbled finally, seemingly mostly to himself as it came out sounding like some private truce between his concern and practicality.

"We'll worry then," Athos agreed regardless, adjusting his head on the pillow shared with Aramis, listening to him exhale and go on sleeping.

-o-


	4. Panic Attack

Fourth prompt: Aramis has a panic attack and Athos talks him through it.

A/N: I went non-specific modern AU for this one, because I'd been wanting to try my hand at such a thing as that for a while, even though I know it isn't everyone's cup of tea. It's short, focusing on the panic attack itself without filling in all the background information. Nominally, it could fit into a variety of the modern AUs that have been sketched out, where the characters have similar or comparable backgrounds to the ones on the show. In my head here, they're specialized agents/law enforcement officers of some sort, with d'Artagnan new to the team, if that helps conceptualize. Other than that, it's a little cliche - plus also, not my finest - but well enough for some fannish pleasure. I think.

* * *

 **Panic Attack**

* * *

-o-

The smile Aramis flashed as he slipped out the side door of the office was too bright. The casual hand he waved in Athos' direction too forced and hurried.

"Athos—" d'Artagnan started to say.

"Stay here," Athos ordered, shrugging on his jacket to follow.

D'Artagnan straightened, glancing between the heavy door and Aramis' desk as though realizing he'd just missed something. "Athos?"

"Keep working. Pull a hardcopy of all possible missing-persons fitting this profile, and if you can, get it on Porthos' desk before he gets back."

He didn't pause to see if d'Artagnan would obey—just casually quickened his pace to catch the slow swing of the outside door before it could completely close. Trotting swiftly down the narrow steps he glanced left to right and saw Aramis in the alley, bending forward with hands against the brick. His head was down, and his muscles were strung tautly, making him look about as stable as cracking glass.

Athos slowed his pace. Letting his hands spread of their own accord, he reined himself in, curbing his desire to rush in favor of a soft approach. "Aramis?"

Startling and spinning as though Athos had fired a gun, Aramis jerked sideways and threw a palm out defensively, as though to ward Athos away. The panicked intensity of his gaze as it landed on Athos was unyielding, his body bent and ragged as his ribcage struggled to expand.

In response, Athos kept his hands up, wide and unthreatening, and with careful precision, took another step. "Breathe, Aramis," he said, sequestering his voice to its smoothest monotone.

"— _don't!_ " Aramis returned, the word escaping, soft and sharp, on a strained exhale.

"Aramis, look at me." Athos held his gaze. "I just need you to breathe. That's all. Easy and slow. That's all I'm asking of you." Keeping his voice and movements calm, he took another step.

"A - Athos," Aramis panted desperately. Shuffling unsteadily backward, the bright panic on his face was crumpling progressively into something much more shattered.

As Athos watched him struggle to breathe, the palm Aramis had warded toward him wavered and flinched, as though it were something separate from the rest of Aramis' body, seizing and twisting in an awkward spasm.

"It's tetany, Aramis, you know that. You were breathing too quickly, and now you just need to breathe— _slow_."

Dropping his arm and head as though defeated, Aramis dragged his cramping hand inward toward his stomach and made a broken noise, lungs tripping as he tried to inhale.

Closing the gap, Athos caught him just before he graced the pavement, taking them both to their knees just short of gently. "I've got you," he promised, tightening his grip. "I've got you."

Aramis shuddered, wrenching a short breath into Athos' collar.

"I've got you," Athos repeated, the steady lay of his own voice faltering just barely. He coughed to recover. "I've got you. This won't last. You know that. It's going to be okay." Carefully maneuvering the both of them while he spoke, he eased into the wall, setting his back against it and pulling Aramis flush against chest. Soothing his hands down Aramis' arms, he took his wrists into a massaging grip just below the cramp-locked hands.

"We've been here before," he intoned, stroking his thumbs smoothly across the cold skin at the base of Aramis' palms. "We've been here before. We both know this, and I've got you."

Gasping, Aramis arched, another broken sound cracking through the series of shallow exhales he was struggling to counter.

Athos tightened his hands around Aramis' wrists and then relaxed them, forcing himself to keep this grip soft as his thumbs maintained their steady stroking. "Easy. Easy. I've got you. Slow, now. Take it slow. I just need you to listen. Listen to my voice, and take it slow." He stretched his words, working to make a cadence out of them.

It seemed a long time coming when one of Aramis' breaths finally found purchase to sink in deeper, the crown of his head surrendering to Athos' shoulder as his throat elongated and another, more complete breath, followed the first.

"That's good, Aramis. That's good. Slowly now. Take it slow," Athos repeated, expanding his own chest on a careful count, until Aramis started to match him and the wrangled hands beneath his thumbs began to loosen and relax. The rest of Aramis' ridged muscles followed along cautiously, giving out one by one as they surrendered.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered, an exhausted droopy sound dissipating toward the sky.

Letting go of one wrist, Athos curved a hand upward, tangling it in Aramis' hair. "You needn't be—as we've told you before."

Aramis huffed, heavy with the exhaustion of weighted limbs. "This—I'm a fool," he breathed.

"Only because you think this makes you one."

"I thought they were getting better—going away."

"They are," Athos insisted. "That you continue to have them doesn't put you back at square one."

Aramis' lungs moved silently, hoarding air for a long moment before Athos felt the barest of nods. He glanced at the sky from their position in the alley as his own dark thoughts rolled forward and couldn't help but add, "Having another one doesn't put you back at square one—hiding them from us might."

Aramis swallowed thickly. "I know. I'm sorry. I ... didn't want you to worry. I ... didn't want to be sent back to psych."

Exhaling a short breath through his nose, Athos scrubbed his fingers over Aramis' scalp but didn't say anything—overtly conscious of the dangerous abyss of emotion still hanging about them. "Rest a moment," he said instead. "You won't be able to stand just yet."

Lifting a trembling hand, Aramis pressed fingers into his eyes and rolled his forehead into Athos' neck, just as Athos caught the hint of a faint sound coming from up the stairway. Glancing over the head of a disconcertingly oblivious Aramis, his gaze locked unerringly with d'Artagnan's.

Despite looking pale and thrown—with questions and worry battering against his unbridled nature—d'Artagnan kept his mouth closed, staring from Athos to Aramis and back again. After a teetering moment, he gave Athos a tight nod and disappeared quietly back inside.

-o-


	5. Sleep

Fifth prompt: Aramis is no stranger to the invasion of distressing dreams, but the unconscious offering of protection and support by his brothers still occasionally takes him by surprise.

A/N: As with some of the other prompts, I lost track of the original source that spawned this one. It's fluffy and reads a bit like an interlude. As a summary of what it turned out to be, we'll call it what it is - a minor moment of upset, followed by instinctive brotherly care.

* * *

 **Sleep**

* * *

-o-

Aramis wakes from his nightmare with a blink, jolting softly from a messy world of blood and screams into one of silence below a starlit sky.

He stares at first, breathing with his mouth open as a shooting star arcs across the heavens. He follows it, tracing its path again and again with his eyes long after it has disappeared.

His heart feels loud and out of place in the silence. The calm is dissonant. For several seconds, he doesn't remember where he is or how he got there, and wonders for a fluttering beat if the quiet he has woken into is the dream and the screams he left behind are the reality.

The blank confusion only lessens when an expanding motion brushes against his ear, and he thinks – _Athos_ – automatically. A thought solidifying place and time. He sighs in relief, closing his eyes as the motion comes again – Athos' sleeping breaths expanding and contracting in comforting motion. Sometime in the night Aramis' own sleeping sprawl must have carried him lower on the grassy knoll than his companions, his head ending up below Athos' arm, even with Athos' ribs.

There are worse places to be.

On his other side, Porthos has rolled onto his stomach over the joined bedrolls and has his forehead nearly flush to the blankets, breathing halfway into the ground while his heavy arm rests across Aramis' shoulders. His knee is bent, digging lightly into Aramis' thigh.

Aramis likes it. The warmth and the comfort in the crisp night air.

The safety.

It confuses him sometimes, how safe these moments feel – and in the current interlude between screaming and silence, makes him question his reality all over again.

Against his ear, the motion of Athos' ribs changes rhythm and a hand alights in his hair, carding through the curls. "Not sleeping?" Athos murmurs.

"Just a dream," Aramis whispers, and sighs when Athos pauses then rolls a little closer in a gesture that seems almost entirely unconscious.

For his part, Porthos mumbles something indecipherable, stretches his arm more fully across Aramis' shoulders, and curls a loose fist into Athos' shirt.

"Sleep now?" asks Athos, resuming the motion of his fingers through Aramis' hair. He sounds simultaneously more aware than he did before and halfway back to his own dreams.

Aramis has no idea why, but as his body relaxes, he feels a lump rise in his throat. "Yes," he says, swallowing thickly - warmly. "Thank you."

"Not at all, Aramis," Athos says. "Not at all."

-o-


	6. Reliance

Sixth prompt: Aramis is sick. Athos takes his duty as his commanding officer in this regard very seriously.

A/N: I'm probably more on point with this prompt, in matching it to the original prompt, than most of my others. Prompt was for Aramis falling ill with Athos looking after him. As with some of the other prompts in here though, it was so long ago when I copied it down thinking I might like to write a fill for it one day, that I have no idea where the original prompt is.

* * *

 **Reliance**

* * *

-o-

"Aramis, don't move."

Aramis froze, curling his fingers around the bed frame and peering over at his commanding officer through bleary eyes.

Athos finished pouring water into the washbasin, measured in his actions. Then, with hands free, pivoted to leverage the force of his command through a glare.

"But…"

"Aramis."

Aramis fidgeted clumsily, disgruntled, then slumped back, drawing his legs back onto the bed and submitting to the order with bad grace. "Yes, my liege. I remain, as always, yours to command."

Athos smiled tightly despite the bite in the sarcasm. "I am not your liege — I am your commanding officer. A much more powerful claim on your obedience, I should think you'd find."

Aramis huffed, bending his knees up weakly and digging his bare toes restlessly into the bedding. "Of course," he conceded sardonically, though his voice and face had already lost the energy of his discontent. He closed his mouth, breathing through his nose. His paleness had suddenly increased, having attempted more movement than his body could afford. Regardless, after a few breaths, he opened his eyes and persisted. "Though I think you should find I am not so ill that a turn about the room and a glance out the window would do me harm."

Picking up the basin, Athos moved it over to the table by the bed, lifting the cloth off the rim as he took a seat near Aramis' hip. "I disagree, and if you were thinking clearly, no doubt, you would as well." With one hand, he braced the side of Aramis' neck, and with the other ran the damp cloth over his face — over his forehead and down his jaw.

Blinking weakly, Aramis directed a long glance out the open window, at the rain falling steadily beyond it, upon the vegetation and the woods. "It is a fallacy that proximity to rain will always make an ill man worse — I'm convinced of it."

Athos wrung the cloth out and continued his task. "It is not gazing at the rain I am determined to keep you from."

Aramis peered back at him, slowly, suspiciously clear-eyed in this sudden evaluation of Athos, despite the lingering and heavy edge of fever. "Have I been ill so long?" he questioned.

"Long enough that I will not tolerate dissension just now," Athos answered, more sternly seriously than he'd intended. He sighed, wrapping the cloth over his hand and smoothing it under the back of Aramis' neck. "Especially from you."

"Have I aggravated you so? You look tired," Aramis mumbled, eyes brightening.

Athos softened, appreciating that the current worry Aramis was spouting was at least coherent, if still too weakly spoken. He wrung the cloth again, settling it near Aramis' hairline, then shifted to his knee to leverage himself over his brother so as to stretch out on his other side. Situated slightly higher than his charge, he curved a loose arm over Aramis' head and pressed his hand back to the cloth, gently keeping it in place.

Aramis shivered, then relaxed, closing his eyes as Athos rubbed a thumb back and forth into his hair.

"You worsen each time you attempt to tax your body with too much movement," Athos explained softly. "I require you to rest and plan to ensure it. In the absence of a physician and your own good sense, and as we are too far from any other particularly useful aid in in this regard, you will do as I say."

Aramis sighed, turning his chin in toward Athos' ribs without opening his eyes. "I will do as you say," he promised. "As if we were on a battlefield."

"That is only marginally reassuring."

"I have not intended to cause you such worry. Truly, I'll do whatever you suggest … if you will rest as well."

Athos closed his own eyes, listening to the rain and to the steady ins and outs of Aramis' breaths. "That is more reassuring."

Without looking, he could feel the soft rise of Aramis' smile, even through the weariness and heaviness of his lingering debility.

"As it is meant to be … my liege."

-o-


End file.
